


Kiss the Salt

by msgenevieve



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Drinking Games, F/M, First Time, Oral Sex, Smut, UST, lick sip suck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 17:18:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2589773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He might be wearing modern clothes, Emma thinks, but it seems there are still a few things Captain Hook needs to learn about her world. Like tequila, for instance.  Set vaguely ‘now’ in canon terms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss the Salt

**Author's Note:**

> I admit it, I’m a sucker for making my OTP drink tequila together, no matter what that fandom. This is shameless self-indulgence, but also a pressie for Scribblecat. P.S. Drink responsibly!

~*~

He might be wearing modern clothes, Emma thinks, but it seems there are still a few things Captain Hook needs to learn about her world.

Like tequila, for instance.

The Rabbit Hole is jumping tonight (no pun intended) and when they finally manage to find a free table, it’s tucked in a back corner, reminding her of the tavern they’d visited during their time in the Enchanted Forest, in a weird kind of way.  Stretching out her legs beneath their table, Emma wrinkles her nose at the fresh measure of rum in his glass, amused by his habit of stubbornly sticking to what he knows. “Really?  You asked me to come here tonight for a drink and you’re drinking the same thing you could drink in your room at Granny’s?”

“I’m all for trying something new, darling.”  He manages to infuse the words with such erotic intent that she’s tempted to toss back her own drink in one large gulp. “But a man knows where he is with rum.” 

“Yeah, passed out on the floor of his own ship,” she teases, and his bright blue eyes narrow. 

“Are you saying I can’t hold my drink, Swan?”   Putting his elbows on the table between them, he leans forward, his gaze seeming to pin her against the back of her seat.  “I do so hate to be pedantic, but  _that_  particular stupor was brought about by a first rate punch from my good self, rather than an overabundance of rum.”

Emma lifts her hands in mock surrender.  “All I’m saying is that you’re spoilt for choice in this place.”  She waves an expansive hand at the heavily stocked shelves behind the bar at the other end of the room.  “Come on, live a little.”   The irony of telling a three centuries-old pirate to ‘live a little’ isn’t lost on her, and from his smirk, it’s not lost on Killian either. 

“And what would you suggest to broaden my horizons, love?”

Again, the words are practically dripping with innuendo, and she feels a subtle blooming of heat underneath her skin.  Combining a darkened corner table with sexual frustration and unlimited booze might not have been her smartest idea this month, but damn it, she needs a night off. 

Marian is still frozen. The Snow Queen is still nowhere to be found.  Anna is still AWOL.  Henry is still spending most of his time at Regina’s (the two of them have been as thick as thieves lately, and she hates to admit it, but it kind of makes her feel left out), and then there’s the small matter of a chunk of her memory being missing with no explanation.

Frustrated doesn’t  _begin_  to cover how she’s feeling at the moment.

The one constant in her daily life has been the man sitting opposite her, his hand curled around his glass of rum as though he’s worried she’s going to snatch it away from him. “Cat got your tongue, Swan?”

Emma gives herself a shake, realising she’d never answered his question. Maybe she should take a moment to carefully consider which alcoholic delight of his new world he should try first -

“Tequila,” she hears herself declare, and is momentarily tempted to bury her face in her hands.  _Nothing like skipping a few steps,_ she thinks.

His dark eyebrows lift. “I’ve not heard of it.”

Emma gives him a playful grin as she fishes her wallet out of her purse. “I’m not surprised. I’ve never heard a single swashbuckling tale that involved body shots.”

Those eyebrows seem to inch a little higher. “Sorry?”

_ Crap _ . The concept of body shots is definitely not something she wants to introduce to him right now, Not when they’re both painfully aware that privacy has been in very short supply since they embarked on this relationship. They’ve only managed to enjoy a few (very) heated but (sadly) rushed make out sessions, and unless she comes up with a solution to their privacy issue soon, they’ll probably end up fucking in a dark alleyway. While she’s not entirely opposed to the idea, she’d rather something a little more comfortable for their first time, and she has the feeling that Killian Jones plus body shots might have her throwing every scrap of her caution to the wind. “Uh, I’ll explain that later.” She hastily gets to her feet. “Your first taste of tequila coming right up.”

~*~

She clunks a bottle of clear grog onto the table, then adds two small glasses. He eyes the bottle warily. He’s a seasoned drinker, but he’s starting to sense his lovely companion might just have an ulterior motive. “A whole bottle, Swan?”

She merely gives him that smile that promises both retribution and reward, the smile that has had him twisting alone in his bed linens far too many nights since their first meeting. “Cheaper than buying it two shots at a time,” she tells him with a shrug, then vanishes towards the bar once again. The place is crowded tonight, and he loses sight of her until she reappears with a glass dish of lemon slices and what he’s come to know as a salt shaker. “Okay, now we’re good to go.”

He’s all for trying new experiences (especially with her, always with her) but he’s not entirely sure what he is supposed to do with the fruit and the seasoning. “Are all the drinking rituals in your world so complicated, love?”

“I’ll get you a blender and a cocktail book and you can find out for yourself,” is her perplexing answer, then she drops into her seat opposite him once again. Her mouth curves in a slow smile as she stretches out her legs beneath the table, her eyes gleaming in the dim light as her calf slides against his. He feels the effect of the chaste contact in several interesting places, and he has to resist the urge to slide his hand beneath the table to find the curve of her knee. “Right now, though, you can crack that bottle open.”

He does as she bids (he always does, despite what she might say in her most fractious moments) and pours a generous measure into both glasses. When he goes to pick one up, she grabs his hand, wrestling it back to the table top. “Not so fast, Captain.”

“A man could die of thirst with all this nonsense,” he grumbles, but he can’t deny he’s enjoying the sense of occasion she’s added to the proceedings.  “What the devil do I have to do with all these things?”

“Allow me to demonstrate,” she tells him, releasing his hand after giving it a quick squeeze. As he watches, she licks the swell between her thumb and wrist, her tongue pink against her pale skin. Then, for some inexplicable reason, she sprinkles salt where she’s just licked, then fishes a wedge of lemon out of the glass bowl. Finally, she picks up her glass, raising it to him in a playful toast. “Here’s mud in your eye.”

He watches, enthralled, as she licks the salt from her skin, tosses back the contents of her glass in one swig, then bites into the plump flesh of the lemon with white teeth, closing her eyes in delighted relief as she does so.

Bloody hell.

Her eyes open, a blaze of cat-like green in the half-light as her gaze locks with his.   “Your turn.”

He shamelessly allows himself to appear less coordinated than he truly is ( _it’s bad form to force such a complex ritual on a one-handed man, love)_  and is rewarded with Emma Swan’s solicitous ministrations.  She picks up the salt shaker, then looks at him expectantly.  When he holds his hand out to her, her gaze narrows.  “You can’t lick your own hand?”

He gives her a smile, quite certain she can hear the sudden rush of blood pounding in his ears.  “I could, but where’s the fun in that?”

Her gaze narrows even more as his teasing challenge hits its target, then her fingers are curling tightly around his right wrist.  “I suppose you want me to hold the lemon wedge for you too?”

“Not at all.”  He flicks his hook towards the glass bowl, spearing a piece of fruit on his first attempt, much to his relief.  When he glances back at Emma, her lips are parted as if in surprise.  She gathers herself quickly, clearing her throat loud enough for him to hear over the music playing overhead. 

“Right, let’s do this.”  She lifts his right hand to her mouth, then he feels the sweep of her warm tongue on his skin, a damp stripe that teases the sensitive webbing between his thumb and forefinger.  He grits his teeth as she picks up the salt shaker with an innocent smile that tells him she knows exactly what torment she’s just put him through, then dusts his skin with the white seasoning.  “Lick, sip, suck, okay?”  The tip of her tongue flirts with her bottom lip, and his groin tightens.  “Go.”

The taste of salt is an old friend, but the clear alcohol called tequila is an unfamiliar beast, and he feels the hot tang of it burning his insides from his tongue to his gut.  Emma’s gripping his hook now, pulling off the lemon wedge and holding it to his lips.  “Quick, quick, or it won’t be as good.”

He bites down into the fruit, the sour juice flooding his tongue.  The swirling contrasts of taste and smell come together in a rush, and he understands now why she’d closed her eyes.  When he can speak, the words seem rough on his tongue. “That is a demon of a drink.”

She seems pleased. “Do you like it?”

Picking up the bottle, he pours them both another measure. He feels as though his blood is humming, and he wonders what magical ingredients this libation contains. “What do _you_ think, love?”

Emma picks up the shaker of salt, dangling it from her fingertips, her gaze locking with his. “I think it’s time for another shot.”

~*~

It takes only three shots before her chair somehow ends up next to his, and they’re sitting on the same side of the table like two lovestruck teenagers. His hand is on her thigh, his little finger teasing the crease between her leg and her hip, and she thinks that _lovestruck_ might just be the right word. “So, what did you do today?”

He’d gone off alone on some mysterious errand that morning, and she would have been worried if he hadn’t been so cheerful (and smug) when he’d returned to meet her at the station.  When he’d later asked her out for a drink, he hadn’t said the words ‘to celebrate’, but she could see them in his face. Tapping the side of his nose with his hook, he gives her a bright blue wink, and she rolls her eyes at his need to be cryptic. “You’ll find out in due course.” He spears another wedge of lemon with the tip of his hook, and waves it teasingly in front of her nose.  “Another?”

She thinks of her resolve not to throw caution to the wind tonight and almost laughs, wondering who the hell she thought she was fooling. The place is heaving tonight, the dance floor packed with writhing bodies who don’t give a damn about what might be happening at dimly-lit corner table, and she’s so tired of having their private moments snatched away from them. “Why not?” Shrugging out of her jacket, she undoes the top button of her sleeveless blouse, and hears his scandalised intake of breath. Oh yeah, this definitely reminds her of their trip to the Enchanted Forest.

“What are you doing?”

“Remember those body shots I mentioned?” When she looks at him, his eyes are as dark as sapphires, and she knows he’s putting two and two together and coming up with something that’s making him stare at her as though he wants nothing more than bend her over the table and fuck her into next week.

_ Works _ _ for _ _ her _ , Emma decides feverishly.

She goes first. After all, it’s her job to explain these things to him.

His jacket joins hers on the spare chair at their table, then she studies him carefully.  There’s no need to undo any of his buttons (is there ever?) but she does tug the collar of his shirt down to expose more skin.  He says nothing - she has the feeling he’s holding his breath – and she wonders if he can tell that her fingers are trembling. When she runs her tongue along the smooth skin between his throat and his shoulder, he makes a soft sound, his thigh muscles tensing beneath her hand. “ _Swan-_ ”

God, he tastes good. His skin is warm and tinged with salt before she’s even reached for the shaker, and she almost gives into the urge to sink her teeth into him. “Almost done,” she tells him, quickly snatching up the salt and a lemon wedge before she completely loses sight of her objective. When she holds the lemon up to his lips, he looks at her with what she can only describe as confused lust. “Put this between your teeth.”

He does, and she can’t resist the urge to swipe her thumb along the swell of his bottom lip, and the space between them seems to dissolve away to nothing. _Jesus._ She dusts his damp skin with salt, then steels herself to jump into the great unknown.

_ Lick _ .

_ Sip _ .

_ Suck _ .

When she touches her mouth to his, her teeth biting into the pulp of the lemon clenched between his teeth, his hand flexes almost painfully on her knee. Somehow, she manages to stop herself from flicking the fruit out of the way and kissing him until he’s ready to fall to his knees in front of her. When it’s over, he looks at her with a dark wildness in his eyes that has hunger clawing at her belly. “I believe it’s my turn now.”

Turning his chair until he’s between her and any curious gazes that might be cast their way from the other drinkers, he taps one long finger on the top of the salt shaker and studies her, his gaze sliding every inch of visible skin. She feels it as surely as if he’s touching her, and it’s all she can do not to squirm in her seat. When he finally bows his head and licks her collarbone, she almost falls off the damned chair.

She wants to close her eyes, but she can’t look away. He’s so methodical, so in control despite the fog of lust that’s enveloped them both, and she knows he’ll be the same when they finally find themselves in bed. Her last thought before he gently puts a wedge of lime between her teeth is _screw caution._

He lifts his shot glass to her in a toast. “To broadening our horizons.” 

_ Fuck. _

His mouth lingers on her skin, his teeth grazing her collarbone, and her whole body tightens. She lets him chase away the burn of the tequila with the lemon, then she gives into temptation. When she kisses him, he tastes like every dream she’s ever had of a sinful tropical vacation. The lemon wedge falls limply to the floor as he curls his hand around the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to kiss her harder, deeper. It’s a dirty, desperate kiss with a chaser of recklessness, and she wants him too much to stay in this damned bar another moment.

But where the hell could they go? She tries to come up with a solution, something that’s borderline impossible when Killian is kissing that spot just beneath her ear, the one that always makes her breath come fast and her pulse race. His landlady has both preternatural hearing and the well-justified reputation of being one of the biggest gossip mongers in town, and she’s sharing her home with three other adults and a newborn.

When he finally lifts his head, his breath coming just as short as hers, there’s a gleam in his eyes. “Fancy a nightcap, Swan?” He waits, his hand stroking lazily up and down her thigh, his hook resting on her other knee, and there is only one answer as far as she’s concerned.

“Where?”

His mouth curves in a slow smirk. “I believe I know just the place.”

That she doesn’t bother asking him any other questions says a lot about how far they’ve come , and if she wasn’t pleasantly buzzed, she’d be impressed by her progress. Instead, she simply lets him lead her by the hand through The Rabbit Hole, dodging tipsy patrons as they make their way to the front door and out into the cool night air. If any of the bar staff are tempted to rebuke them for making off with a bowl of lemon wedges and half a bottle of tequila, they keep it to themselves.

~*~

Securing ownership of the modest vessel has taken him three weeks of wheeling and dealing and something he’s learned is called _red tape_ , but seeing Emma’s expression makes it all worthwhile. “You bought a boat?”

“Ship, love.” His heart is thumping against his ribs as he gestures to where his newly acquired possession is moored. He’d be lying if he hadn’t hoped for the opportunity to bring her here tonight, but he hadn’t expected them to both be swaying from the effects of that marvellous tequila and for Emma to be looking at him as though she’s planning the most efficient way to remove his clothing. “I could hardly keep taking the Sheriff’s son out on the water in a commandeered vessel now, could I?”

“I didn’t know you were still doing that,” she mutters almost to herself, but she’s smiling, her hand curling around his arm, tugging him close. “So this is where you were this morning?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Do I get the tour?”

“But of course.” He tightens his grip on the neck of the bottle as he lifts it into her line of vision. “There is the small matter of a nightcap, after all.”

Her lilting laughter warms him from head to toe, chasing away the lingering vestiges of uncertainty. They don’t speak of the Jolly (not since he confessed to her what he had done to find her in New York) and the last thing he wants is to infer that he has found his new life with her lacking in some way. To his relief, Emma appears delighted by this new turn of events, tugging him along the dock. Being here with her now, with the scent of salt and brine in his nose and the star-laden night sky stretching out above them, is a small piece of paradise that he knows he will always treasure, whatever the future holds.

“Come on then, Captain Jones.” She’s still carrying the bowl of lemon wedges in her other hand, which should look ridiculous, but all he sees is the regal bearing of the daughter of royalty. When she gives him a saucy smile, however, his chivalrous thoughts quickly flee, replaced by far more primal urges. “Show me what you’ve got.”

~*~

He bought a boat.

A few weeks ago, Emma would have been afraid that this meant he was restless and bored and planning to set sail for more exciting waters. Now, though, she knows he’s done it for her and Henry as much as himself, and the thought makes her pulse quicken. He’s not going anywhere, not unless she’s by his side, and it’s been so long since she was so sure of someone that she’s not quite sure what to do with the feelings welling up inside her.

She doesn’t have time to dwell on the emotions churning inside her, because he’s helping her step onto the small boat, his feet planted firmly on the deck (he certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s just helped her polish off half a bottle of tequila), looking every inch the captain he is. He may be wearing modern clothing, but the sea is still in his blood, and that he wants to share it with her and her son makes her knees quake in a way that alcohol never has.

The tour takes precisely two minutes.  She knows nothing about boats (ships, whatever) but this one seems fine to her, if a lot more modern than she would have expected.  When she spies the padded seating inside the cabin, she muses that maybe he’s sacrificed tradition for comfort.  When she spots the step that leads down to a below deck nook that appears to offer the occupants a place to stretch out if they wish, she licks her lips, suddenly feeling weirdly nervous.  She can still taste both salt and lemon juice – her lipstick is long gone, thanks to the man standing beside her - and she’s abruptly aware of the fact she’s still holding a bowl of freaking lemon wedges.  “Uh, where can I put this?”

Taking the bowl from her hand, he places it carefully on the captain’s chair, then hands her the bottle of tequila. “I’m afraid I have no shot glasses on board,” he tells her, and she can’t resist flashing him a grin.

“As Sheriff of this town, I approve.” She unscrews the cap, the lifts the bottle to him in a toast. “As your date, no big deal.”

Before she can take a sip, though, he steps forward, closing the distance between them and slipping his right arm around her waist. “Not so fast, Sheriff,” he teases, echoing her earlier words from the bar. “I believe you’ve skipped a step.”

_ Oh, God. _

She wanted privacy, but now that they have it, standing together in the darkened cabin of a gently rocking boat, she’s afraid, because this is it. If she sleeps with him, there’s no going back. No one night stands when it comes to him.

His face falls at her hesitation. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. “Swan, if you wish me to escort you home-”

“No.” Gripping the lapel of his jacket with her free hand, she raises herself up on her toes, brushing her nose against his. “Here is good.”

His bottom lip is salty when she traces it with her tongue, and his groan is music to her ears. She lets him take the bottle from her without protest, because she’s buzzed enough and she can think of several other things she could be doing with her hands. She hears the unmistakable sound of the bottom of the bottle being put down non-too gently somewhere behind him, then his hand is sliding underneath her jacket to caress her back, his mouth covering hers in a kiss that has her rocking back on her heels.

No going back, but she’s not afraid, not even when he takes her hand and leads her below deck to a narrow but very serviceable padded bunk.

No salt, no lemon, no tequila. Just his hand and mouth on her skin, his lean muscles shifting beneath her palms, their clothes tossed carelessly aside piece by piece until there are no more secrets between them.   He sinks down onto the bunk, his hand and hook sliding up the backs of her thighs to grip her ass, his mouth hot as he kisses a line down her belly, and she no longer gives a damn about a comfortable bed for their first time.

_ Maybe next time _ , she thinks as she finally touches him, her mouth going dry as the heavy thrust of his erection fills her palm, _they should try that dark alleyway._

~*~

They shed their clothes with clumsy haste. She complains about the buttons on his vest, but she’s breathing the words into his ear as she slides her hand beneath his shirt to explore his chest, so it’s a criticism he’s willing to shoulder.

He’s dreamed of this moment since their first meeting (not that he intends telling her such a thing, she already holds far too many cards in this relationship) but the reality is far different to his imaginings. There is no way he could have guessed at the sheer beauty of the form that lay beneath her clothing. That the sight of her, all pale curves and creamy skin, would have him feeling like a callow youth at his first glimpse of a naked woman.

He can only stare, his hand trembling as he smooths his fingertips down the curve of her breast, tracing the line between her silken skin and the fabric of her tiny corset. She watches him from beneath lowered eyelashes as he traces the outline of her taut nipple with his thumb, his cock stiffening in the confines of his modern trousers as she bites her bottom lip and arches into his touch. The soft swell of her breast fills his palm, and he is lost, a man possessed, his mouth seeking hers to plunder and pillage, swallowing her gasp of surprise.  She reaches behind her to unhook the contraption, and the feel of her bare chest against his takes his breath away.

She’s glorious, a living flame in his arms, and he’s never been happier to burn.

She touches him too, her manner a charming contradiction of shyness and impatience, and when she finally wraps her hand around his cock, her thumb making a lazy circle, he almost feels his eyes roll back in his head.   He’s waited too long for this moment to spend himself into her hand at her first touch, and he kisses away her protest as he gently disentangles her fingers and pulls her to stand between his knees.

Her skin is sweet, smelling of soap and perfume, but it’s the heady scent of female desire that has his heart pounding.  The tiny scrap of lacy fabric between her legs is damp against his palm as he touches her, and the sound she makes when he presses his knuckle against her has him painfully hard in a heartbeat.   Always impatient, his Swan, she hooks her thumbs into her knickers and pulls them down her thighs, kicking them away to leave her bare and warm in his hand.   Her mound is smooth and pale, hiding nothing from his gaze, and he marvels anew at the wonders of this realm.   When he kisses her there, her fingernails score his shoulders, and she says his name as though it’s a profanity.   

She tastes of salt, slick and hot against his tongue, and desire burns through him as potent as any spirit, the soft sounds of her pleasure as he explores her with his mouth making his head swim more than any alcohol ever could.   “You are glorious,” he whispers, nipping at her with his lips, and her reply is little more than a quiet, breathy moan.   When he slips one finger into the tight warmth of her quim, the shudder that goes through her body finds an echo in his blood, his cock drawing up hard and thick against his belly.  

She falls apart around his gently thrusting fingers, her body arching like a bow, her fingernails sharp against his skin, branding him.  Her arms tighten around his neck as she slumps forward, her chin resting on the top of his head, her breasts swaying temptingly close to his mouth.  “Fuck,” she says succinctly, and he grins against the sweat-dampened hollow between them.

“If the lady insists.”

She slips away from him to rummage in her wallet, a smile stretching across her flushed face when she holds up a small square of plastic.  “Long story short, we need to use this, I’ll explain later.”

He cares not what rituals he needs to perform in order for them to be together, and he’s relieved to find she requires nothing more of him than to wear an impossibly thin sheath over his cock.  “Very sensible,” he mutters in a harsh, unsteady voice as she rolls it down over his straining erection.  “Your realm is quite the revelation, Swan.”

“You really are getting the hang of this modern man thing.” She says something else about _safe sex_ as she touches him, and he reaches up to grip her shoulders, rolling her onto her back on the narrow bunk, knowing that one more minute of this kind of preamble might well be his undoing.

“Nothing matters but you, love,” he mutters, then she’s wrapping her arms and legs around him, anchoring his body to hers. They kiss, slow and deep and hard, with teeth and tongues, breathing in the warmth of each other’s mouths, learning the taste and the feel and the sound of each other’s desire. Her hands slide between them, stroking and cupping him, drawing him up hard and tight against the slick heat between her legs, making him shudder with pleasure.  
  
They move slowly, their bodies fitting together with gratifying ease, the yielding softness of her body trembling beneath his own, stiff and aching and wanting. She gazes up at him, her eyes darkened to the colour of the sea, her lips parted on a silent plea, and he knows she has longed for him as much as he has for her.

When she tells him to keep the hook on, the pirate in him wants to simply _take_ her, hard and fast, rutting into her until she’s sobbing his name on a gasp.  
  
Perhaps he’s changed less than he’d hoped.

Or perhaps he’s exactly who she needs him to be.

He doesn’t kiss her as he presses himself deep inside her, wanting - needing - to see her face. Or maybe he needs her to see _his_ face, he thinks hazily as he bites back a groan at the feel of her around him, hot and sleek and tight. Her eyes glittering, she arches beneath him, angling her hips to take him deeper inside her, and he’s suddenly all the way there, his whole body crackling with enough sensation to make him feel as though he’s grabbed a live wire with his bare hands.  
  
“Fucking hell.” The words spill out of his throat even as she lifts her mouth to his, her hands coming up to cup his face, her breath hot on his tongue as he starts to roll his hips into hers. Her fingers flex on his face, thin fingernails scratching his scalp as her body flinches away, then rises to meet him just as fiercely, answering his with every arch of her spine and twist of her hips and he wants to see her face when she comes, he wants her to come while he’s inside her, to say his name through gritted teeth and _fuck,_ holding back long enough to make it happen might just kill him but he doesn’t care, will never care.  
  
Her hands are gripping his hips now, the press of her fingers deep in his flesh, urging him closer and closer. “Harder,” she tells him in a strained, smoky whisper that cracks open his foolish notion of being in control. “Please.”  
  
He wants to tell her that he loves her but bites the words back, instead kissing her as he slides his hand between them, finding her where she’s slick and trembling, feeling the thrust of his own flesh as he slides one finger into the heat of her body. He touches her there, watching her face soften, her lips forming silent words, her breasts rising and falling as she struggles to control her breathing. He watches her face as he moves inside her, sees the agonized delight in her eyes, feels the changes in the flesh shivering around his own. She tenses beneath him, growing still, then she arches into his touch, her head falling back, her golden hair spilling over the bench as she says his name again and again.  
  
There’s no one here to hear them, not tonight.  
  
Needles of pleasure-pain stab delicately at the base of his spine as heat licks at him from the soles of his feet to his scalp. It ripples up the backs of his thighs, sliding through his belly and his cock, everything drawing up tight and hard and then he’s coming, his body pulsing deep inside hers, her name a groan rumbling in his chest as he closes his eyes and admits defeat and victory in the same heartbeat.  
  
He has no idea how long they lie tangled together, his cock still buried deep inside her, his hook digging into the upholstery above her head.  She runs her hands down his arms, across his shoulder blades, over the curve of his arse, soothing touches that still manage to make him wish he was a good hundred years younger and had the energy to take her again this instant.

When he finally, regretfully, lets himself slip away from her, she gives him a sated smile, and he feels every one of those enchanted years fall away. “You know, when I’m buzzed on tequila, I can barely walk a straight line.” She nudges her thigh between his, one hand resting on the jut of his hip. “I want to know your secret.”

Her tone is light-hearted, and he knows she’s trying to defuse the heady emotional mood that’s settled upon them.  He’s not surprised - he wasn’t expecting a declaration of love or even intent – and it’s easy to fall into their usual banter.  “Anything is possible when you’re properly motivated, darling.”

She smiles as she rests her head on his chest, shifting closer until their naked bodies are flush from shoulder to knee.  “I guess we’ve found one way to broaden our horizons,” she murmurs, her eyes fluttering shut as he threads his fingers lazily through her silken mass of hair, the strands like spun gold against his skin.  “Apart from the tequila, I mean.”

“I can think of a few more ways,” he tells her, his head filling with images so vivid he’d be tempted to blush if he were so inclined, and he feels the laughter that ripples through her. 

“Maybe later, when I’ve got the energy.”  Her voice is drowsy with sated pleasure as she presses a kiss to his chest, her hand coming up to curl around the trinkets he wears around his neck.  “We really shouldn’t fall asleep here.”

“I agree.”  He runs his hand down her naked back, reveling in the supple dips and curves, and tries to remember the last time he felt this at peace with the world.  “I should walk you home.”

She burrows closer, her breasts pressing softly against his side. “We should go now, I guess.”

He kisses the top of her head. “It wouldn’t do for the saviour to be found in such a compromising situation in the light of day.”

She sighs, her breath warm against his skin.  “Hmmmm.”

The last thing he remembers is her hand curling around his, then sleep claims them both.

~*~

She wakes with a jolt in the darkness in a strange place, almost pulling them both onto the floor in her haste to scramble to her feet.  When she finally finds and checks her phone, she discovers that it’s almost four o’clock, and she has two text messages from her father (she can only assume he was on midnight feed duty) telling her that he wants to check the north woods again in the morning and that he hopes she’s okay, wherever she is.  Emma’s heart sinks as she taps out a quick reply, telling him that she’s okay, she’ll be home soon, and that the north woods sounds like a plan.

In reality, they’re just chasing their tails when it comes to the efforts to find the Snow Queen, but it’s better than doing nothing.

As much as she wants to see what Killian’s energy levels are like first thing in the morning, she knows they can’t stay here.  Reality has reared its ugly head and it’s time to be the Saviour once again.  Not only that, but the docks will soon be bustling with the usual pre-dawn suspects and she _so_ does not want to get busted doing the walk of shame from Captain Hook’s new ship.  

He insists on walking her home, an obvious ploy to prolong their time together, and warmth curls through her chest at his simple delight in her company.  Before they leave the boat, she tucks the bottle of tequila into a small storage cupboard in the cabin, feeling a blush wash over her cheeks as he quirks one dark eyebrow at her. “For next time.”

“There’ll be a next time, then?” 

She looks at him, startled by the uncertainty in his voice.  “Did you think this was a one-time thing?”

His shoulders lift in a casual shrug that’s not casual at all, and her heart clenches.  “The thought had occurred to me.”

Maybe she should be angry he’d think so little of her, but she’s not. She thinks of Neverland, and the way she’d pushed him away with her words even as her body had swayed towards his.  Maybe he’s right to be a little uncertain of what’s going on in her head.  Moving to stand before him, she puts her hand flat on his chest, over his heart, and feels the heat of his skin through his hastily donned shirt.  Her eyes search his, needing to see that he understands what she’s trying to say.  “I’m not that person anymore.”

His smile makes his eyes glow, as if someone’s lit a candle behind them, and she knows that he gets it. “Neither am I, love.”

When she kisses him, he tastes of lemon and salt and sleep, and she doesn’t want to put a single foot off this boat.

She does, though.  She lets him walk her home in the pre-dawn greyness, then kiss her as they stand outside the apartment door, the gentleness of his mouth a heady contradiction to the way his hips are rocking into hers.  She gives into temptation, leaning against the door frame and pulling him closer, closing her eyes as he accepts the silent invitation.  His mouth is hot on her throat, the thrust of his erection rubbing against her zipper in a steady rhythm, and she thinks she might start looking for a place of her own as soon as humanly possible.  Now that she knows what it’s like between them, she’s not going to settle for sneaking a few hours together when the planets align and they’re miraculous left alone by friend and foe alike. 

He pulls away first, his face flushed, his hair dishevelled and his eyelids heavy, which is a distractingly good look on him. “I’d say goodnight, love, but it’s almost morning.”

She should go inside, she really should, but she can’t bring herself to move. “Hey, is your new boat seaworthy?”

He manages to look insulted while stroking her hair. “Of course.”

“Maybe you could take us for a test drive?” Dropping her hand to his side, she catches hold of his hook, rubbing her thumb over the cool curve of the metal.  “Me and Henry, I mean.”

His eyes light up. “It would be my pleasure, Swan,” he tells her, and she knows he means every word. 

“Maybe without the tequila this time, though.”

His slow smile makes her belly quiver with remembered pleasure, and she wonders how the hell she’s going to leave him on the other side of that front door.  “It’ll keep, love.”

When she finally makes it to her bed (alone, damn it) the birds are starting to chirp in the trees outside her window.  There’s beard burn on her breasts and she’s tender in places she’d forgotten she owned, but she’s happier than she’s been in a long time. Burying her face against her pillow, she closes her eyes as her own personal erotic movie begins to play on a loop in her head, and she knows she’ll never be able to look at a lemon wedge again without blushing.

It’s a small price to pay.

~*~


End file.
